Good For The Soul
by Ruthless Bunny
Summary: Bobby Goren and Frank Pembleton have dinner together. A Homicide crossover, sort of.


Good for the Soul

Bobby noticed that Munch's shoes didn't match. What kind of detective couldn't tell that his shoes didn't match? He leaned over to Eames, "So this is the guy?"

Eames gave the duo a once over, "What's with Munch's shoes? The otherâvery nicely put together." She gave a nearly imperceptible nod of approval. "Married, but very nice."

"Thanks. A little moral support?" He gestured with his hands and eyebrows.

"What support? We'll go in there, we'll do our deal and then we'll go home. Like every other day." She stood up, "Bobby, chill out. It's no big deal. They can kill you, but they can't eat you." She gave him a slug on the shoulder. "Relax."

Bobby never relaxed. "Right." He smiled, "I'm sure it's nothing."

The introductions were brief. Munch brought his friend and former colleague forward, "Goren, Eames, I want you to meet my old friend Frank. Frank Pembleton. We used to work together in Baltimore." Munch seemed too eager.

Hands were shaken and pleasantries exchanged. Frank and Bobby circled each other, recognizing a fellow member of their species. "So you're going to watch us?" Bobby asked.

Frank weighed his words, "I'll observe, make some notes" he left off with something unsaid, _I'll make suggestions_.

Goren nodded and stuck his chest out a bit; this was _his_ territory, "Great," he lied, "should be fun."

Frank smiled, "exactly. Fun. The word I would have used."

The suspect was brought into the interrogation room. Frank thought of it as 'the box', this was his stage. He strutted and fretted his hour upon it often enoughâin the past. Now he claimed mastery of it and offered his services to those so inclined to avail themselves of them for his very stiff fees. It wasn't the same.

As a professional Frank tried to be objective. He made his notes, using precise words and suggestions. Just as he learned in school, but there was always a part of him that couldn't stand to watch something done by amateurs. All detectives liked to think that they had connived a confession out of a suspect. While most believed that it was an art, Pembleton tried to make it a science. There were techniques, there were tricks, there were the moments one could palpate; a shift in magnetic fields that indicated where the detective might go, what he might say that would get the cherries to line up and get the perp to dispense the jackpot, the confession.

As a Catholic; Frank liked confession as a concept. He tried to get each one of his suspects to understand that only with a confession could they avoid eternal damnation. No matter what they had done, love and understanding was available to them if only they would confess. As an Atheist, Frank knew that it didn't matter really, no matter what the suspect admitted to, or didn't admit, punishment would only be meted out in this life. His job, as a detective, was to get the guilty to admit their guilt. Punishment wasn't up to him. His job ended with the confession. A good, clean confession that would hold up in court. Anything less than that, we'll it was a cheat.

Frank turned his attention to Eames and Goren. The first thing that he noticed was that they worked well together. Goren led and Eames followed, they were the Fred and Ginger of interrogation. Partners who worked well in every aspect of an investigation were rare. There had to be simpatico between people for them to effortlessly flow through each of the steps. Sometimes the most nimble thing a partner could do was get out of the way to let the other think. He also knew that Eames was rarely recognized for her role in this dance. As Ginger Rogers was fond of observing, "I did everything Fred did, but backwards and in high-heels."

Frank made a note to see if he could watch them together at the very beginning of a case. Not so much to gain a better understanding of how they worked, Frank already knew that, but just because it was a pleasure to see something well done.

So many detectives followed the procedures and blundered their way into solved cases. There was a prevailing wisdom amongst detectives: One third of cases were slam dunks. So obvious and easy to solve that a blind chimp could close them. One third of cases were stone 'who dunnits'. No matter what resources were devoted to them, they would remain unsolved. Then there were the last third. These were the cases that separated the wheat from the chaff. These were the cases where all the pieces were there, you just had to know how to put them together. Great detectives solved these cases. Great detectives sent the bad guys to jail. Great detectives took pride in the job. Great detectives were few and far between.

Frank knew that he was seeing the work of the finest. In his line of work he was always shown the best, first; as though the people who were paying him for his services were trying to convince him that they weren't needed. It took at least two-weeks before he'd start seeing the detectives who could benefit from his experience. He stopped taking notes and watched as the suspect was played like a Stradivarius.

Eames played her part well. The 'by the book' officer, the woman, the one who wanted to 'leave it to the lawyers'. She laid the groundwork. It was subtle, but she gave the suspect the facts he would need to come to the right conclusion, that confession was all that could save him. They already knew he was guilty. They had proof. They weren't at all concerned about making their case. Eames made sure that the suspect knew that she would leave tonight, on time and spend the evening unconcerned about the murder.

Most suspects believed, in the back of their minds, that there was something that they could say that would get them out of One Police Plaza. They believed that if they told the right lie or dropped the right name that they would be released and eating dinner with their families. Detectives knew how make the poor sap believe that the confession would do that. Confession was the key to freedom. Only a real genius could make the confession seem to be the suspect's idea. Pembleton knew that these two had that kind of genius.

The methods used were varied. Each detective had his or her own style. Frank liked a mixture of intimidation and patience. He wasn't above altering his style, slightly, should the case call for it. He was vastly impressed with Goren. He felt that he was watching the Royal Shakespeare Company; all sound and fury. The way the suspect recoiled from his energetic delivery. Too loud, too soft, each phrase considered and delivered for maximum impact.

Soon, the exhausted suspect had given it all up. Accomplices in the bargain. Goren was kind when the pitiful wretch thanked him for his help. Led away in handcuffs he gave one last look around the room. Later, as he sat in Sing-Sing, the man would have reason to reflect on those few hours in the room, the hours that changed his life, while he served life.

Goren and Eames returned to their desks to shuffle papers around. They could have been writing a report, but they really just wanted to revel in their success. The DA, gave his stamp of approval and set up a meeting with the public defender for the morning.

Frank quietly approached the desk, "that was very nice work."

Eames smiled, "Thanks. High praise." She reached into a drawer and fetched out her handbag. "Well I'm off."

"Got a date?" Goren asked as he fiddled with the nib on his fountain pen.

"Yup. Same guy." She winked at him.

"Third date?" He glanced up at her sideways, as though viewing the issue at another angle.

"Yes, but don't put too much stock in that. I'm old fashioned. $500 and twenty hours. And that just means I'll consider it." She loved yanking his chain.

There were so many responses to that. He let them all go. "Have fun."

"You too. Good night Frank." She exited towards the elevators.

"She's excellent." Frank observed, waiting for the inevitable query for feedback.

"Yes she is. So Frank, do you have plans for the evening?" Bobby put his pen in his portfolio and zipped it up.

"No. Do you?" Frank hadn't expected that.

"No. But there's this Cuban place I've wanted to try. You up for an adventure?" He stood, indicating that he was ready to go. "I hear they make a wicked Mojito." He sweetened the deal.

"Sounds tempting." He considered it, "Why not?" He smiled. It was like dawn breaking.

A short cab ride later and they were sitting at one of six tables in a small bistro in Hell's Kitchen. They munched a bowl of chicarritas, dipping them into the strong garlic sauce. Bobby sipped a mojito while Frank drank tamarindo.

"This is really good. I remember eating like this in Miami." Frank mused, "although my wife complained about kissing me afterwards."

"So you're married?" Bobby asked.

"Oh yes, nearly fifteen years." Frank thought about his family, "I've got two children, boy and a girl." He reached for his wallet so he could show him the picture.

"Lovely." Bobby looked at Frank's family. They were lovely. Wife, daughter, son. Perfect.

"They are. That's why I doâwhat I do." He took a glance and tenderly folded the wallet and put it back into his pocket.

"And why you don't do" Goren let the silence sit there. He knew a good silence was better than chatter, to get at the truth.

"Yes." Frank's face went completely blank.

"That's cool how you do that." Goren reached for a chicarrita.

"Do what?"

"Make your faceâ." He pantomimed with his hands.

"It's one technique. You do the opposite. You show all kinds of emotions with your face. Did you do much acting in school?"

"Sure. Didn't everyone?" Bobby decided that he wanted Frank's story. "You know, I have the weirdest feeling that I know you from somewhere. Have we met before? At a seminar?"

"Well, I did come here for a case once. I worked with some folks in the twelfth precinct. Maybe we saw each other there?" They were interrupted by the waitress placing an avocado salad on the table. The men each spooned the salad onto their plates.

Bobby shook his head, "I don't think soâI'll get it."

"So I notice that you use some techniques that they teach at Quantico. Did you work for the feds?" Frank speared a tomato, red and juicy with lemon and oil.

Bobby swallowed and sipped his drink, "Yes and no, I was in the Army and I did take some classes there."

"Let me guess, you did time at Fort Huachuca. Manheim? Youngsan?" Frank waited for his hunch to be confirmed.

Bobby laughed, "All of the above. Did you read my personnel file?"

"No. Just an educated guess. So you were in the Army, in intelligence, so why didn't you go to the FBI?" He experimentally mashed an avocado and picked it up with a plantain chip. "Okay, that's not a good combo."

"Well, my mother became ill, and I had to come home to take care of her." He stopped eating for a minute and toyed with his salad.

"So you've made sacrifices for your family too?"

"I guess you could say that. It's not so much of a sacrifice. I like my job. It's honest work." He held up his empty glass, indicating to the waitress that he wanted a refill.

"Not really. Truth be told, it is dishonest work."

"Nice play on words there. Do you feel that the ends justify the means? It's about the game, isn't it? What buttons do I have to push? What does he feel guilty about? What do I have to do to make that guilt work for me? Have you ever made a guy confess, even though you know he didn't do it? It's really easy." Bobby seemed unashamed.

"Yes. Of course we then got the real suspect. I did it to prove a point. You're right; you can get anyone to confess to anythingâif you know what you're doing. Has anyone ever not rolled over for you?" The waitress cleared away the plates.

"Oh, once in a while we'll have to line up the evidence. Not everyone confesses. Some think they stand a good chance with a jury. Sometimes they do. Look at O.J." Bobby stared into Frank's eyes, to see his reaction.

Frank skirted the issue, "any smart lawyer can manipulate a jury. That's why I like having a confession. All the evidence in the world may not convict a really likeable defendant, but he can't back away from his own words."

Bobby tapped the table with his index finger, "no way. O.J. had a confession, it didn't matter. Sometimes a guilty person walks. We have to accept it."

"But you don't accept it. Do you? Does it gnaw at you early in the morning when you can't sleep? The one that got away?" Frank noticed that Bobby avoided his gaze.

"Sure. There are casesâperpsâkillers. That's why I want to be good. I'm not here to handle a caseload. I'm here to solve crimes and to put the bad guys in jail." Bobby felt his blood pressure rise; he was passionate on the subject of justice.

"It's dangerous to be devoted like that. What do you do outside the job? What are your hobbies?" He seemed to have the classic symptoms of a guy on the road to burnout.

Bobby thought about it, "What are my hobbies? Well, I put in about twelve hours a day on the job. I go to the gym. I go see a show, you know, matinee. Eat good food. Go on dates. Stay away from Times Square. Catch an exhibit at the Guggenheim." He paused, he knew that he embellished when he talked about shows and museums, that's what everyone expects New Yorkers to do with their spare time. For Bobby, there was mostly reading, "I read, in fact I think I have a pile of library books that are overdue. Oh! I read this really cool article. There's this girl, and she decides that she wants to be a superhero, so she makes a list of thirty attributes, all kinds of things, martial arts, weaponry, electronics, flying a plane, CPR. Get this. She accomplishes all of these things. She started when she was thirteen and in ten years she has this big, long list of accomplishments."

"Seriously? So what does she do with all of these accomplishments?" Frank didn't really believe that such a woman existed.

"She's an international private investigator and bounty hunter. She goes out of the country to find kidnap victims. All kinds of things. Every day is different."

"So what do you think? Is that something you'd like to do?"

"Sure! Who wouldn't? Imagine if I were that focused when I was a kid. By the time I go into the service I would have been in shape, had all these skills." Bobby looked at the plate of food that had been placed in front of him. Chicken, congri, and maduros. He squeezed lime juice over it and forked up some rice.

"It sounds like you had enough on the ball to get into intelligence school. That's nothing to sneeze at." Frank cut the tail off of one of his shrimp.

"Sure, but I didn't really work at that. I admire the fact that she sat down and broke it all down. Down to each individual skill. Not only that, but she found a profession that lets her use all of the skills she's acquired. Now that's a woman I'd marry." He chewed on his grilled chicken.

"Supergirl? Sure, but really, what kind of woman do you date?" Frank cut up a slice of tomato on his plate.

"All kinds. Women are great. The only problem is that they get tired of me after awhile. I think I fascinate them in the beginning, and then they realize that what they thought was my mystery is just my cluelessness." He smiled a self-deprecating smile.

"Oh, I think you fascinate them plenty. You probably push them away when they start to get too close. Pass the pepper please." He reached for the grinder.

Bobby shoved the peppermill over. "Why do you think that?"

"Simple, it's not that I know you personally, but most cops either find someone who understands, or they deliberately don't get involved. I knew that I wanted a family, so I found a great woman who understands my work. You," he indicated with his knife, "clearly you're popular with the ladies, if you don't have a steady, it's you, not them."

"Maybe. Maybe." Bobby agreed, "So how did you know that your wife was 'the one'?"

"I was young, just starting out on the beat. I had horrible hours and I could not shut up about the job. Every liquor store robbery was Disneyland to me. She seemed to be as excited about it as I was. She asked intelligent questions. I think that I realized that not every woman would be able to talk to me about the job, and not every woman would know when I didn't want to talk about it. Mary and I have been through some rough times. Rough. Every day I am grateful that she married me." He remembered how she looked that morning as he left for the train station. She had just finished her hair and she was braiding Olivia's in the kitchen. Just that simple act, a routine morning chore filled his heart with sugar.

"Maybe I'll find someone, one of these days." The plates were cleared and café con leche and flan were presented. "Oh, don't add sugar, this is plenty sweet."

Frank nodded, "I should skip the coffee. Blood pressure." Frank had a stroke a few years ago and he was careful about his diet.

Bobby reached over, "I'll take it."

"Planning a late night?" Frank pushed the cup and saucer towards him.

"Yeah, I'm off tomorrow. I've got a great book. I might as well unwind with it." Bobby shrugged with his palms up.

"I'm beat myself, I'm checking out the guys in vice tomorrow." Frank said it like it was a trip to Calcutta.

"Hey, if you see Young down there tell him I said hello." Bobby reached for the check.

Frank waved him away, "I've got this. I'll expense it. It's research."

"Thanks Frank." They found themselves on the sidewalk and Bobby hailed a cab. "You go ahead and take this one, I'll walk a bit, catch some fresh air, see what's going on in the world."

Frank looked around and shook his head. Hell's Kitchen, while far from the ghetto it used to be, still looked dodgy. "No problem Bobby, thanks for the invite, it was an interesting evening."

"Anytime. Don't be a stranger." Bobby put his hands in his pockets and strolled up the street, back towards Broadway. He wondered if he could give up his job for anyone. Even a mythical wife and phantom kids. He tried to imagine the kind of woman he'd marry, the kind of kids they'd have together. He couldn't get an image to stick in his head. _The hell with it, I'll just get a magazine and call it a night._


End file.
